


Revelations

by speedgriffon



Series: I Shall Taunt You a Second Time | Dragonborn Fiona Fics [6]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Angst, Arguing, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Heavy Angst, Not Really Character Death, dragon attack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-14 09:42:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20598695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/speedgriffon/pseuds/speedgriffon
Summary: Just as Brynjolf is coming to terms with his true feelings for Fiona, he learns about her true identity thanks to a dragon attack on Riften. She is the Dragonborn. Emotions run high, and he questions if anything they ever shared was real.Just when things couldn't get worse, Mercer decides this is the best time to take Fiona to Winterhold for a mission. Can her and Brynjolf's already ambiguous relationship recover from this betrayal of trust?





	1. To Hide the Truth

**Author's Note:**

> I was asked by a few people (because it is referenced in a few of my stories for the pairing) at what point does Brynjolf learn that Fiona is the Dragonborn. This is it. A dragon battle in Riften, that leads to a huge-ass argument about lies/betrayal. Angst-fest incoming. This has some slight references to a story I haven’t published yet, but have 80% written, so it made sense while I was completing this. BOLO for future series updates :)
> 
> There is a follow-up companion piece to this that bridges the gap between this story and "Betrayal and Forgiveness." Basically will be Bryn during the events of "Speaking With Silence". Will be posted as a second chapter in a few days.

The two sat at a table in the Flaggon, content in their silence as they ate their meals and drank their mead, taking in the surrounding chatter of their Guildmates. Brynjolf was perfectly content to stay there all evening if it meant studying Fiona’s face, watching the small secret smile on her red-painted lips, the sparkle of her sapphire eyes when they danced over to meet his. He couldn’t recall a time he had ever felt so content with a person—let alone a woman—not needing conversation to pass the time.

For weeks now he had been slowly coming to terms with the fact that the affection he held for her was much stronger than friendship, that the yearning in his heart went beyond flirting, lingering touches and stolen kisses. Fiona—the talented thief who had joined their ranks all those months ago had managed to sneak in and steal his heart in the process. Mara curse him, he wanted her—in every sense of the way—but something was holding him back. For all the confidence he had in being the Guild’s second, the thought of baring his emotions to the woman he cared for was terrifying, uncharted territory.

When Fiona’s boot twitched against his under the table, he knew she was starting a flirtatious game, one that he eagerly accepted with a small returned tap to her ankle. She bit back a grin as they continued, their feet pressing back and forth against one another in playful pushes for dominance. Finally, Brynjolf crossed his ankles over her own, lightly pinning her feet to the floor. She squirmed in her seat but let out a delightful laugh, head tossing back to expose the column of her neck that he so desperately wanted to kiss and mark as his own. Perhaps he’d find the courage to tell her tonight and act on these damned feelings—after a few more drinks, of course.

Her wide smile faltered with the first shake of the table, the bottles on Vekel’s shelf clinking together, a few falling to shatter on the ground. The bartender turned around startled and upset, but Brynjolf stayed focused on Fiona’s expression as her eyes flicked upward, lips forming a thin line as her jaw clenched shut. Another, more intense rumble echoed through the tavern, this time knocking more bottles and cutlery from the tables and countertops. As members of the Guild began to stand and move out of alarm, Brynjolf watched as Fiona remained curiously still, her eyes still glued to the ceiling.

“What is it?” Delvin asked to nobody in particular. “A quake or somethin’?”

Fiona blinked, quietly answering. “No.”

Before anybody could question her, there was a commotion at the Cistern entrance, a few bodies rushing to make their way into the Flaggon. Sapphire led the pack, her eyes wide as she bent over, breathless. She waved a hand upwards, and in the general direction of where the booming sounds had come from.

“A dragon,” she said. Brynjolf darted his gaze back to Fiona, whose brows had furrowed at the confirmation of what she already expected. Sapphire continued, shaking her head wildly. “I was in the marketplace when it attacked. Barely made it down here—”

Fiona stood up with a start, the chair she was just sitting in nearly toppling to the ground as another tremor shook through the Ratways, more powerful than the previous ones. Brynjolf watched her path for all of five steps before realizing where she was heading, scrambling to stand and walk after her.

“Lass!” he yelped, the two squeezing through the makeshift bookcase door that led back through to the Cistern. Inside, the remaining Guild members were laying low, speaking in hushed tones about the possible events occurring topside. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to help,” she explained plainly, not bothering to stop to turn to face him.

“What are you talking about?” Brynjolf asked in alarm. “We don’t have to go up there—”

“You’re right,” Fiona barked back at him, her tone causing him to pause in his hurried steps to follow her across the walkway to the graveyard exit. “_We_ don’t. But I’m not going to stand around down here and let the city be destroyed when I’m the only one who can defeat it.”

_What?_

Brynjolf rushed to catch up with her, reaching out to grip her by the elbow. He hadn’t meant to catch her so roughly, but her words didn’t sound like boasting. Fiona stared down at his hand on her arm before her eyes glanced up to meet his. The emotions there only confused him further—determination and fear were to be expected, but sadness and guilt? She pulled away from him again, wordlessly moving to leave the Ratways to the surface. Brynjolf steadied himself with a deep breath before realizing there wasn’t enough potions on Tamriel to calm his nerves—a _dragon_? He quickly followed Fiona up the ladder, thinking to himself that _love_ made a person do crazy things.

* * *

Riften was known for its magnificent sunsets—the way the sunlight caught the lake waters and the foliage of the surrounding trees was truly a sight to behold. And when the evening mist settled in and the bright auroras lit up the evening sky—it any wonder that the town attracted so many visitors to the marketplace and pier just to get a glimpse. Of course, that evening, as the sun was setting, a different kind of shadow swept across the hold, sending the city into chaos.

As Brynjolf and Fiona ascended from the Cistern they were met with the sounds of screams, guardsmen shouting orders to citizens and soldiers, anybody who was able-bodied to help bring down the beast currently circling Mistveil Keep. The dragon’s roars heard loud and clear, relentless as it echoed across the sky. When Brynjolf looked to Fiona, her expression was exceedingly difficult to read as she focused on the dragon’s sounds, as if she was trying to interpret them.

Finally, she glanced at him, a steady calmness to her tone. “Protect the citizens. It’s an Elder Frost Dragon, so don’t do anything reckless,” she paused before adding with precision, “you mustn’t get in the way of its unrelenting force—the shout will break every bone in your body—killing a mortal man.”

Brynjolf listened, his mind rushing a mile a minute as her words started to make sense. He was a Nord, these stories weren’t unknown to his kin—but they were just that—_stories_, rumors that had been so far removed from him and his life in Riften. Ulfric killing the High King with a shout? The dragon attack in Helgen? The Greybeards suddenly summoning this cryptic _Dragonborn_? _Dragonborn_—Vekel had heard she was a Nord woman, but that she had disappeared _months_ ago. Right around the same time Fiona had appeared in Riften and joined the Thieves Guild. When she had come into Brynjolf’s life and changed _everything_.

“Fiona,” he said her name slowly, and her eyes shined in way that told him she understood that he _knew_.

The veneer broke away, her bottom lip trembling as she stepped closer to reach for his hand, but he surprised even himself when he flinched away. She braced herself, fisting her hand closed. “I’m sorry for not telling you before.”

Brynjolf wanted to argue—_a little late for that—_but with the dragon’s screech, they were starkly reminded that this was neither the time nor place. Fiona shot him one last pleading look before sprinting off in the general direction of the Keep, her gaze quickly focusing on the enemy. An overwhelming sense of dismay settled in Brynjolf’s gut, and his heart wedged in his throat—he didn’t want to believe it, that she had been hiding this from the Guild, from _him_ the entire time.

As he rushed across the marketplace to do as she asked, his mind continued to race—Fiona had lied from the very start, and now the last several months of their _relationship_ started to crumble before his very eyes. Was any of it real? Was she just stringing him along? As blissful and content as he had felt earlier that evening, as close as he had been to revealing how he felt about her, now all he could feel was contempt.

“_Dovahkiin_!”

Brynjolf snapped his head skyward as the dragon swept low across the marketplace, landing on the roof of Black-Briar Manor. It arced its head side-to-side, expelling a large gust of frost that caught a grouping of guards on the wooden planks below, killing most of them instantly. Suddenly, an arrow pieced right between the dragon’s eyes, causing it to rear up in pain, and stopping the flow of ice. The dark ebony color told Brynjolf exactly who had shot it, and he followed the path until he found Fiona crouched atop the Bee and Barb’s roof, a mirror image of the dragon.

It kicked up from the Black-Briar Manor, hovering just long enough for Fiona to fire three more projectiles, all making their mark within the beast’s belly before it soared towards her. Brynjolf anticipated more shots from her bow—she was one of the best archers he knew and could easily hit a moving target, but instead she stood and lowered her weapon.

“_YOL_!”

A stream of fire blasted from Fiona’s lips, the echoing sound of her voice carrying the heat directly towards the dragon and engulfing it in flames. It shrieked, its large wings flapping in a panicked frenzy to fly away. Brynjolf could only watch in wonder, not realizing he had been holding his breath until he felt dizzy. The lass could _breathe fire_. He followed Fiona’s movements as she tracked the dragon, moving beyond the city’s northern gates before crashing to ground in a terrific crumble. She leapt from the roof without a second thought, landing into a sprint to follow. He quickly chased after, as did many of the guards, seemingly bewildered at what was happening to their city. 

Beyond the gates, the dragon lay thrashing, dark red blood oozing from its wounds even as the fire Fiona inflicted upon it died out. She lunged at it with a bravery Brynjolf had never seen in any warrior and one he could only dream of having. With one hand clutching the dragon’s neck she used her other hand to plunge her dagger deep within its jugular, tossing her legs across the beast’s head to steady her movements as it tried to toss her away. Fiona continued to cut and stab, her movements unrelenting even as the dragon slowed, her only stopping when the dragon slumped across the ground.

The dragon was dead.

Almost immediately the guards were shouting in celebration, moving to crowd Fiona as she simply stared down at the dead beast. But it wasn’t over. The thick black scales began to disintegrate and within mere seconds, there was nothing left but bones and ash. Swirls of yellow and orange spiraled upwards and condensed, concentrating as they searched for a host. Like a breath, Fiona inhaled the energy, her body glowing alive with the dragon’s soul before in an instant, all was calm, as if nothing had happened.

A guard spoke first. “_Dragonborn_, it is an honor.”

She didn’t say anything, only turning to find Brynjolf’s gaze where he lingered by the city gates. They stared at each other in silence, even as the crowd of spectators grew to cheer and congratulate Fiona on her victory. But it was hollow to her as she noticed that Brynjolf wasn’t joining in on the merriment. How could he when this power of hers had been unknown to him less than an hour prior? There was no denying it, now that he had seen it with his own eyes. She was the Dragonborn and things between them would never be the same. 

* * *

They returned to the Cistern without speaking a word to one another, the tension rising as the silence stretched. As if the Guild could see strain between the two, they strayed afar, a few even scampering away as Fiona briskly made her way to one of the back rooms. Brynjolf followed, determined to have her answer for her deception. As soon as they crossed the threshold of the training room he reached out, this time grabbing her arm much rougher than before. Fiona spun around on her heel, eyes widening in alarm as she blinked up at him, face so different from the fierce warrior that had just single-handedly defeated a dragon.

“I suspect you have questions,” she said slowly, eyeing his hand on her arm.

Brynjolf furrowed his brow, irritated beyond belief. What kind of game was she playing at? Was she playing coy just to get under his skin? He shook her once, but it only made her expression obscure into something akin to fear. “You’re damn right I have questions!”

Fiona yanked herself free from his grip, but did not move away, squaring her shoulders as she met his burning gaze. “I can start from the beginning, when I came to Skyrim, what it means to be—”

“No, no,” he interrupted with a curt, mocking laugh. “_I _get to ask the questions.”

He began to pace before her in a short path, bringing one hand up to rifle through his hair. “Why did you come to _Riften_?”

“I was looking for someone in the Ratways,” she started to explain. “Like I told you when we first—”

“Just stop,” he groaned in reply, interjecting her again. He covered his face with a hand, wiping it across his brow before rubbing at his jaw. Their first—_second_—meeting in the Bee and Barb—it wasn’t something he really wanted to reflect on right this moment. Considering that all his happy memories with the lass were quickly becoming tainted, he supposed it truly didn’t matter. Regardless, he shook his head. “I’d rather you not lie about that.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Why exactly should I believe you?” he asked. “_Especially_ now?”

Fiona’s expression fell, her eyes darting across his face in a silent plea of sorts. “Bryn,” her voice was low. “Brynjolf, you’re the last person I wanted to keep this from. I never expected…I never meant to hurt you.”

“But you did,” he retorted, coldly. He crossed his arms. “I’m not overly interested in the reasons why. Not anymore. I’m more interested in if anything else you ever told the Guild was the truth. What you told _me_ was the truth. If everything we ever shared was just one big fantasy that you never planned on staying in.”

“O—Of _course_ it was the truth!” Fiona’s voice trembled as she stepped closer to him, her eyes widening in surprise at his words. Even he was shocked at his candor, the raw emotion flowing through him. But all the affection he had felt for the woman standing before him was missing, and his heart wasn’t aching with a want to tell her he wanted her—it was aching with a betrayal he hadn’t felt before. 

“How am I supposed to believe that, Fiona?” he asked in a desperate tone. His mind rushed with every detail they had every shared, from mundane to intimate and personal, over the last several months. “Are your parents even dead?”

She slapped him instantly, the sharp sting of her hand leaving a burning sensation along his jaw. Brynjolf immediately knew that he deserved it—guilt fluttered through his veins as he noticed the tears pooling in her eyes. He had seen her cry before, but he had never imagined that he’d one day be the direct cause. So not _everything_ was a lie—but Fiona had still chosen to omit the largest truth about herself, and that was something that Brynjolf could not forget, or possibly forgive.

“I can’t believe I ever thought—” Fiona hesitated, her hand pressing to her forehead, and then to her eyes to wipe the stray spill of her tears that were flowing unapologetically now.

Brynjolf’s anger flared at what she could’ve possibly said, and he waved his hands in disagreement. “Oh no you don’t,” he argued. The sight of her tears made him less guilty, and more annoyed now. “You don’t get to …_you_ betrayed _my_ trust. _I’m_ the one who gets to have second thoughts about our future now!”

“Excuse me?!” Fiona yelped, obviously taking large offense to his phrasing. “Cut the bullshit Bryn. You want to call me out on keeping secrets when you’ve kept plenty of your own as well! And don’t even get me started on playing stupid games with people’s emotions. You want to know how I feel?”

Brynjolf sarcastically rolled his eyes. “Oh _lass_, please enlighten me!”

“_Tafiir_,” she hushed, almost in an endearing way—he didn’t understand. Fiona shook her head, dissolving back into her irritation. “Sometimes I feel like I could…I could…”

“What are you going to do?” Brynjolf taunted, leaning in dangerously close to her face. “_Shout_ at me?”

Fiona’s eyes darkened, and for a split second, he feared he had just signed his death-wish.

“If you two are quite done!”

Brynjolf and Fiona both turned, only moving the slightest bit away from one another at the sound of their Guildmaster’s booming voice. Mercer stepped into the room, expression one of disappointment and annoyance—though, he was always generally annoyed with something, Brynjolf thought.

“Fools, the two of you,” he spat. “Lowering yourselves to a lovers’ quarrel.”

Brynjolf bristled at the mention, and made to argue, but bit his tongue at Mercer’s icy glare. He glanced to Fiona and saw that while her jaw was clenched tight in frustration, there was the slightest blush to her cheeks—he tried not to let the appearance change his mind about how he felt about her _now_.

“I really ought to have split you up a long time ago,” Mercer suggested with crossed arms. “Perhaps this could’ve all been avoided.”

The two remained silent, as if they were children being scolded by their father. Mercer smirked, low grin causing an unsettling feeling to creep up Brynjolf’s spine. What was the Guildmaster planning?

“Fiona. It’s time you traveled with me. Now that you’ve made yourself useful and shown your _worth_,” he explained. “Gulum-Ei’s information about Karliah is taking us to Winterhold—Snow Veil Sanctum.”

“One way or another, _this_ is going to end,” he said. Brynjolf felt perturbed by Mercer’s statement, but couldn’t place why, the feeling not dissipating even as the Guildmaster stepped away. He glanced back to look Fiona directly in the eyes. “I don’t like to be kept waiting.” 

She stood up straight, swallowing down a lump in her throat before anxiously picking at her armor. It was still covered in dragon’s blood—she would need to pick up some belongings from her home before the trip—Brynjolf watched her nervous twitching and wondered if she was stalling. Fiona looked up at him, lips in a taught line as she held his gaze, silently pleading for him to say something. But he wouldn’t—he was past that, too exhausted to think of the right words to speak—if there were any.

All he felt now was numb. Perhaps some distance between them would do some good…even if that involved Mercer. Seemingly catching the hint, Fiona took a half-step away and then another, slowly moving further and further away until she was almost completely out of the room. At the last second Fiona glanced over her shoulder to peer at Brynjolf, their eyes locking for the briefest of moments. Neither said a word—no farewells, no last-minute apologies. He closed his eyes, if only to move past this moment as quickly as he could. 

When he opened his eyes, she was gone.


	2. To Mourn a Beloved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Mercer’s news that Fiona is dead, Brynjolf must deal with the guilt of their last conversation and the regret of words unspoken for the rest of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This bridges the gap to the next one-shot in the series 'Betrayal and Forgiveness' that I wrote earlier in the year. Angst, but we know it doesn't stay that way!

Fiona was dead.

Nearly a month after she and Mercer first departed from Riften, the Guildmaster finally returned to the Cistern, explaining in horrid detail Karliah’s continued deception and betrayal. She had trapped them in the Sanctum, paralyzed Mercer, and killed Fiona without hesitation or mercy—just as she had murdered Gallus twenty years prior.

_“I want you to know, she called out for you_,” _he said. “It seems that in her last moments, she was thinking of you.” _

Mercer spared no detail in explaining his survival and Fiona’s demise, much to Brynjolf’s agony. But there was something sinister in the way he spoke the words, like he was enjoying his Second’s despair over the news. But Brynjolf hardly had time to speculate on Mercer’s intentions—with the news of Fiona’s death, he was inconsolable with anger, grief, and _guilt_.

His last words to her hadn’t been kind. His emotions had never been so overwhelming or raw and he had reacted to her revelation without thinking. Then again, Brynjolf had no way of knowing that their conversation in the Cistern would be their last. That his last memory of her would be a fleeting, desperate look in her dark blue eyes.

Now as he sat in the Ragged Flaggon, drowning himself in every alcoholic beverage available, he found himself desperately willing for Fiona to appear across from him so he could take it all back. Beg for her forgiveness, and _finally_ confess that he had been hopelessly in love with her for months but too stubborn and stupid to act on it. Brynjolf’s chest ached with a hollow sort of pain when he realized no amount of wishing or praying was going to make her appear out of thin air. He had lost his chance, made a fool of himself and now he would have to live out his days with the regret of his mistake, _alone_.

With another bottle empty he rested his head against the table, closing his eyes in frustration. Before Fiona entered his life, he had managed to get by just fine—he was a master thief, a notable ladies’ man and had no problem distancing himself from his emotions. He was perfectly content to spend the rest of his life in the Guild, but without Fiona there it was like a part of himself was missing. Nothing would ever be the same.

A body slid into the chair opposite Brynjolf, and for a moment his heart raced as he thought it could be Fiona before reality sunk in. “My condolences, mate.” Delvin’s voice was quiet and uncharacteristically sincere. “She was somethin’ special, wasn’t she?”

Brynjolf didn’t bother lifting his head, lacking the energy to speak with his friend. Couldn’t Delvin see that he wanted to be left alone?

“Come on Bryn,” he encouraged. “Do you think this is what she would’ve—”

Brynjolf snapped up at that, wincing at the pain that throbbed through his head at the motion. He reached across the table to shove a finger in the Breton’s face. “Don’t pretend to know what she—”

“Oi!” Delvin smacked Brynjolf’s arm away, interrupting him. “I think you better stop drinkin’ before you say something you regret.”

Brynjolf’s eyes widened in realization and he quickly swallowed his words. Shame washed over him as he relived that last conversation with Fiona again and again. Delvin watched him with curious eyes before switching to one of worry as Brynjolf stood up, swaying slightly as he moved away from the Flaggon towards the Cistern. This was the last place he wanted to be. Where he wanted to be was with Fiona, but that was impossible—he’d have to settle for the next best thing.

* * *

It took Brynjolf four more picklocks than usual to break into Honeyside, for which he blamed on his intoxication. Luckily for him the guards hadn’t seen him struggling by the eastern door, the heavy lakeside fog and night sky obscuring his movements. As soon as he was inside, he locked the door behind him, pausing momentarily to gather his bearings. He held steady to the doorframe, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the room. It was dark, save for whatever moonlight spilled in from the windows on the western wall. The fireplace had long burned out—it was clear that even her housecarl had been dismissed.

Brynjolf slowly wandered through the small space and despite the fact he had been there several times before, it felt foreign to him now. Suddenly there were items and trinkets he had never noticed before—never bothered to pay attention to at least. When he was in Honeyside, it was usually for less than reputable reasons, usually looking for some excuse to share her bed or to sneak a peek of her undressing—another regret. Now that he had the space to himself, he took the time, carefully inspecting the contents of the place she called home. 

The first thing he spotted on a nearby table was a bottle of brandy, clearly imported and _very _expensive. It came with a note, Brynjolf’s heart lunging into his throat when he noticed Fiona’s clearly inscribed handwriting.

_Sources say this is your favorite brand. We should share it and see where the evening takes us._

_-Fiona _

A completely new sense of anguish settled in his chest and gut, nearly crippling him as he collapsed into the chair. Tears prickled his field of vision and he quickly pressed his palm to his eyes, desperately trying to stem the flow, but it was useless. When was the last time he had a reason to cry? It was unlikely that he had since he was a young lad, still unruly with his emotions and throwing tantrums when he didn’t get his way. But this was different, this was mourning, his tears full of sorrow as they streamed down his cheeks, dropping to the parchment below.

It was no use letting it go to waste, Brynjolf thought as he uncorked the bottle, pausing to lament Fiona was not there to share it with him as she had wanted. He didn’t bother with fetching a cup as he took a swig, savoring the rich taste, but it all felt bittersweet without her. He stood up again, taking the bottle with him as he continued pacing through her home, admiring all the little treasures she had saved in her travels. He knew Fiona was a sentimental person, but it was only then that he was faced with how truly heartfelt she was.

On her desk there was a journal, and before Brynjolf’s mind could reprimand him for snooping where he didn’t belong, he had started flipping through the pages, softly smiling at her recorded words. It was mostly a day-to-day retelling of her time in the Guild, omitting her more criminal offenses, but leaving in her thoughts and feelings, especially when it came to _him_.

_…despite my better judgement, I believe I have found myself carried away by that ‘dreamboat’ (Delvin’s phrase)…All I can think about are those damned flowers and that stupid grin and Divines, does he know how badly I want to kiss that smirk off his face? _

Brynjolf couldn’t help but laugh, despite the pain that lingered. At least he had some small confirmation that the lass had felt the same as he did. It wasn’t a full-blown admission of _love_, but it was a start…and now something he’d never be able to follow through on as he planned. As he turned the page, he found the flowers—the yellow mountain ones he had given her months ago in some thinly-veiled attempt at expressing his feelings. They had been pressed and preserved as to not lose their color or shape and looked as fresh as the day he picked them. Next to the flora was a small notation—_remember, he remembered_.

Brynjolf continued to sit at her desk and drink the brandy until it was nearly empty, staring off at nothing, just listening to the muffled sounds of the river right outside the western door. The moonlight shined in brighter now, casting an eerie glow across the bed. He stood, his steps careful as he approached as if Fiona was curled up under the covers and would sit up at any moment to catch him sneaking up on her as she had done so many times before. But she wasn’t—the bed was empty, pillows and furs piled neatly where she had last left them.

He sat down on the edge, glancing over his shoulder and willing once more with all his might that she could appear, if only to chastise him for breaking in—or maybe, for once, invite him to stay. Brynjolf placed the bottle of brandy on the nightstand before leaning down, tugging off his boots and letting them fall to the floor. He wasn’t about to undress any further—he had enough to feel guilty about, and dead or not, wasn’t going to defile Fiona’s bed with his nudity.

As he stretched out across the blankets and furs, he was overcome with her scent—honey and vanilla and _flowers_—her hands always smelled of pollen and grass. Brynjolf quickly turned his head to bury his face into the pillow, inhaling deeply as the memory of her became clearer in his mind, as if she was beside him. With some focus, he could feel her warmth, her spirit so strongly—for a moment he was convinced she was truly there to haunt him—but even Brynjolf knew it was his inebriated mind playing tricks. A calmer thought washed over him when he thought about her soul, knowing it was at peace in Sovngarde. He wasn’t the most devout of Nords, but even then, he felt some comfort in knowing they would be reunited when his time came. 

Even as sleep overcame him, his thoughts were less clouded with guilt and regret. Brynjolf knew the path to healing would not be easy, and it would not happen overnight. He would need to immerse himself in the Guild, find distractions that took him out of this misery. Yet, deep down he knew somehow, eventually he would be alright. One day, he would be complete again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> say hello over on tumblr @ eeveevie (and prompt me for more bryn x fiona! :) )  
kudos and comments are always appreciated :)

**Author's Note:**

> There is a follow-up companion piece to this that bridges the gap between this story and "Betrayal and Forgiveness." Basically will be Bryn during the events of "Speaking With Silence". Will be posted as a second chapter in a few days. 
> 
> say hello over on tumblr @ eeveevie (and prompt me for more bryn x fiona! :) )  
kudos and comments are always appreciated :)


End file.
